


Inevitability (Translation of "Неотвратимость")

by Hekateras



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Apocalypse, Gen, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:21:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekateras/pseuds/Hekateras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Which side are you on?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitability (Translation of "Неотвратимость")

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Неотвратимость](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/12773) by Кейра, просто Кейра. 



There is nothing to hold on to, now; the world is crumbling before their eyes, with no hope of salvation. The last battle awaits, and what comes after is the End. And there will no longer be a Bentley parked at the entrance, or dusty books with ages of memories on their pages, or evenings spent snug and cozy at a favourite restaurant. They will part ways and drift so far away that, even standing on the very edges of Heaven and Hell, they would not be able to see each other.

And that is only if there _is_ a Heaven and Hell, after this. But if so, will it really be the End? The End of Earth, certainly. As for them... simply an end, perhaps, a moment when everything will have died that has grown the slightest bit significant over the course of these long six thousand years.

Aziraphale and Crowley are standing in silence on a squalid house's old roof, corroded by time and by rust. The outskirts of London are so much different from the heart of it; even the wind seems colder here, and the faded sky seems to hang lower. It is as if they were on the periphery of the world, tossed aside by the bustle of it. As if the End meant absolutely nothing, and this hole-ridden rooftop were the center of their own Universe. If they had but one chance, they would have stayed here forever.

They have nothing to talk about – the Apocalypse unfolding before their eyes speaks louder than any words either of them could utter before dying. But neither one nor the other is certain that death is even an option for them – and that is why inside, in that space humans often call the soul, they both feel an ache, a tightening of the chest. It would be easy for them not to breathe – even not to think at all – but in these last few minutes (or even hours, for who is counting by now?), all they want is to be real, to gulp at the air with their lips, open their eyes wide and live, live, live...

“Everything turned out alright last time...” Aziraphale says flatly. There's not even a glimmer of hope in his voice, it is simply a memory – one of the many he's collected over six thousand years. He could turn them into a thick photo album and leaf through it over a cup of tea, smiling at every page... But none of them matter now. No memory surfaces from the depths of his mind, blooming warm and nostalgic in his chest. Only that of the past, unresolved Apocalypse, delayed by fifty years through an accident of chance...

People say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. But there is only a creeping white fog in Aziraphale's head, blurring over countless ages of remembrance and taking memories away. Perhaps it's that he's not a human... Or not dying. Even though he would prefer death to what awaits him after...

 _Inevitability_ , Aziraphale thinks, but doesn't say it aloud. Crowley knows without being told. One does not need to be an angel or a demon to know they're thinking the same thing, at this moment. Their wings have long since turned into a burden, weighing them down to the bottom of the Earth, tangling them up more and more in the snares of a fast-paced life.

 _Another's life_ , Aziraphale corrects himself, as he has known from the very beginning that it does not belong to them. The angel and the demon are only guests here; it is not their place to take what is not theirs.

Their place is to wait.

“Could do with a smoke,” says Crowley, and Aziraphale turns his head to face him.

The demon's face is a mask of detachment – like something on a holy icon, and for a split second Aziraphale is amused by the absurdity of it. But the smile that flits across his face quickly gives way to a melancholic despair, and so he sighs and turns away. The time for careless amusement has passed, as has the time for cigarettes. And it is not even as if the demon needs them – they are only one of the many habits he's acquired on this Earth - utterly useless, when you think about it. But all the more precious for that.

“We'll have to leave soon,” Crowley reluctantly ventures. He presses the cigarette to his lips and takes a deep draw, closing his eyes. His fingers are in a fine tremble. Aziraphale notices, and mournfully looks away.

They both know they cannot stand here forever – very soon, they will need to walk away, in opposite directions, take up arms and only meet again as enemies. But for now, they are silent, wrestling fate for just a few more minutes of peace – as if that will change anything. Their armies are long ready, and in the south-west of London a great battle rages, creeping outward. It will not be long before even this dingy old house, on whose rooftop they stand, is erased into dust. The wind will scatter that dust over many kilometers... only no-one will care by then. And maybe even the wind will have ceased to exist...

“Are you afraid?” Aziraphale asks quietly.

Crowley shakes his head, and it is only his lips that answer, “No.”

He is lying – he is losing his mind with fear, but the only thing he fears more is admitting it – as if something horrible will happen if he does. So long as the fear lives inside him, he can fight it - but if it claws its way out, it will paralyse his will. And Crowley will still have need of that, today, so he looks into Aziraphale's face intently, over his shades. They both know they're afraid of what is to come, but would never admit it to each other.

“Thanks,” Crowley says, breathing out a small puff of smoke. Dividing the fear between them, but not allowing it to escape – that is the only way for them, and as Aziraphale simply gives him a brief nod, saying nothing, Crowley is grateful for his understanding. They both need to win the battle against their own fears, but their strength is waning with every second the Apocalypse draws near...

It is a miracle nobody has come for them yet. They have their own places in the ranks of the warriors – their very nature presumes their mutual destruction, and their duty dictates a yearning for victory. But here they are, standing side by side in the biting wind, an angel and demon who should be fighting to the death, and yet are both trying to wordlessly comfort the other.

Crowley doesn't like what looks to be the beginnings of a drizzle – what he wants is a proper downpour, to soak him through to the bone and let him blame the cold for his shaking hands. But the rough scatter of clouds promises nothing more than a sprinkling of rain.

“Do you think we're the only ones?” Aziraphale asks, breaking the silence.

Down below, where he's gazing, a terrified woman hauls a shrieking and struggling child toward the house. The child points a finger of them, trying to draw the mother's attention.

Crowley doesn't answer for a while. He knows what Aziraphale means, and he too has had cause to wonder. Does the world hold even one other pair of creatures like them, who've had the luck to become friends in spite of their nature? Are there another two like them, in India or Australia perhaps, an angel and a demon asking themselves this same question?

Or perhaps not? Perhaps they are the only ones to have made this momentous mistake, one they are not even capable of regretting.

“I don't know,” Crowley answers, and his eyes read, _It doesn't matter anymore._ “I think it's time...” he says hesitantly, touching Aziraphale's shoulder and receiving the same uncertain nod from him in return.

You cannot prepare yourself for the Apocalypse, even with six thousand years of life upon your shoulders. Even more so now that life has become something more than just the ongoing preparation for the End, and the End itself has been revealed to be an inevitable disappointment.

Before Crowley can take a step to leave the roof, Aziraphale grasps at his hand.

“Wait...”

Crowley silently turns and looks him in the face. For the first time ever, he does not feel the usual impatience when the angel addresses him.

“I'm aware that there is nothing we can do about it now,” Aziraphale is muttering quietly, “But even so, if we could choose...”

Crowley sees how nervous Aziraphale is, how much he has to struggle for his words.

“...What I mean is, would you have still chosen to become a demon?”

Crowley looks away, not knowing how to answer. He's not in the habit of dwelling on the impossible. Dreams are not his lot, his creed has always been about the here and now – and here he is, facing what is perhaps the last question that will ever matter to him.

“What about you?” He knows he's only shifting responsibility this way, but cannot help it. He simply does not have an answer.

“I don't know,” Aziraphale is shaking his head, and somehow it makes Crowley want to scream. “Sometimes I think it would have been better to just leave everything, descend into Hell and stay there...”

Crowley hisses in irritation, and Aziraphale falls silent. Hell is no place for an angel, surely he knows that? If any of them should be in Hell, it is only Crowley.

He lays a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder and says quietly, “You wouldn't like Hell, it's too foul.” He is silent for a while, then adds with a sigh, “Even for a demon.”

Aziraphale looks carefully at Crowley, and the demon feels as if that gaze is turned straight into the core of his soul, if indeed he has one. He cannot bear it, and looks away.

“Which side are you on?” the simple question, spoken so softly, sounds like a sentence to Crowley. He would have feared to answer it even to himself.

Crowley's eyes search for something to latch on to, but Aziraphale is looking at him so intently that he has no choice but to look up again, and meet his gaze.

“Dammit! You know I'm not allowed to disobey,” he sighs, but it doesn't make him feel better. “You don't have a choice either, by the way.”

“I know.” Aziraphale turns away, embarrassed and feeling guilty over the impertinent prodding. “Do you know what I would like?”

Crowley tils his head to one side and waits for him to continue.

“I would like to die,” breathlessly whispers Aziraphale.

For a second Crowley is sure to have misheard. He would have thought that contemplating death would be forbidden for an angel – but he's forgotten how long they have both been on Earth. By now Aziraphale is no more an angel than Crowley himself is a demon. There is no difference between them, save perhaps for the colour of their wings – and even that has been obscured by an aeon's layer of dust.

He takes a deep breath of the cold air and, not taking his eyes off the unfolding battle, tightly squeezes Aziraphale's shoulder. Perhaps not all is lost yet? Somewhere deep inside him, hope begins to flicker, and Crowley thinks that he has almost gathered the courage he needs. After all, they have already lost everything they have save for this strange friendship – and if they have but one chance to preserve it, he will take it.

“You want to die?” he asks Aziraphale again, and seeing him nod, he turns his gaze to the flames of the Apocalypse. “Then there's only one road for us.”

Today, everything will come to a close, and with the End of the world comes their own End.  
  
  
  


 

 


End file.
